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Immediately, another waiter appeared and ran to Dalziel’s side. He bent low and Dalziel whispered something in his ear. The waiter stood, nodded and walked briskly out of the room. In seconds, the sound of a harp filled the enormous room and the first notes of a classical piece I vaguely recognised tripped off the walls.
Breathless, I looked up to see Dalziel already on his feet holding out a hand. I took it, blinking at the same surge of heat that had infused me when he grabbed my finger. He led me away from the table and turned me to face him. He threaded his right arm slowly beneath my left until his fingers lightly touched the scarred skin over my shoulder blade. I held my breath and watched his eyes for any reaction but there was none. Only a determined focus on some distance point beyond me.
I rested my arm along his and my palm on his shoulder. I didn’t need to apply any pressure to feel the thick muscle tissue beneath his tux jacket. It was so full and solid, I was surprised his body was able to breathe. He took my right hand in his left and raised it in the starting position, then the harp picked up again. It sounded like raindrops on a summer’s day and so romantic my chest hummed with pain.
He moved me with disarming gentleness around the room, holding me lightly, applying pressure when my rusty steps threatened to throw us off course. As was customary, we facedin opposite directions, but after a minute or two I couldn’t resist turning to look at him.
“You’re a good dancer,” I said, working to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“What did I say about small talk?” he replied.
I swallowed, annoyed I hadn’t thought of anything more inspired to say. He led me through a lap of the room while the music danced around us.
“What made you choose this piece?”
I thought I felt his arm tense beneath mine but that couldn’t have been right. The man was control personified.
“It’s my favourite.” He guided me more smoothly through a bend, his fingers lightly dusting my spine.
I suddenly wanted to know everything about it. “What is it called?”
“It’s the Waltz of the Flowers by Tchaikovsky.”
“I’m sure I’ve heard it before,” I said, wracking my brains to place it.
I felt his shoulder ease slightly and there was a softness to his voice. “The Nutcracker Suite.”
“That’s it.” I grinned.
We moved another lap around the room then he finally turned his head. “It’s believed Tchaikovsky dedicated this piece to his favourite rose.” His eyes landed on mine briefly.
My heart seemed to jam inside my chest, stuttering with confusion. There was no way on earth I felt anything for this man. He’d kidnapped me and was holding me captive against my wishes. He’d agreed to sleep with me once in return for payment, but was even withholding that, and for what? Because he needed to feelwanted? I should have been hating him, despising him, finding any way I could to escape, but those feelings hadn’t surfaced. It didn’t make any sense. I was in shock – that was theonly explanation. Shock had rendered me incapable of seeing a way out.
The crepe skirt flowed around my ankles as we moved, but the luxuriousness of it tasted bitter. I had to get out of there and back to normality, money or no money.
“I’m ready, Dalziel,” I whispered.
He drew us to a standstill and lowered his gaze to me. “For what?”
“I’m ready for you to take my virginity.”
His nostrils flared slightly as he considered my words and the final bars of the music drew the waltz to a close.
Finally, he shook his head once. “No, you’re not.”
I withdrew my arms angrily. “Isn’t it up to me to decide?”
A vein on the good side of his face throbbed. “NO,” he thundered, suddenly. “I’m the one paying. I’m the one who gets to decide if you’re ready or not.”
Rage bubbled up through my chest. “Then at least tell me what the criteria is for being ready, since you claim to know so much about me.”
He closed the small space between us, bringing his steel chest to mine. I had to crane my neck to maintain eye contact. “I already told you.” His voice rumbled with conviction. “You have to want it.”
“I do want it,” I said through gritted teeth.
“No, you don’t. Not yet.”
“Yes. I.Do.”
